


Achilles' Heel

by mellodramatica



Category: Achilles - Fandom, Greek Tragedy, Greek and Roman Mythology, Patrochilles - Fandom, Patroklos - Fandom, The Iliad - Homer
Genre: Gay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 19:57:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8460967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellodramatica/pseuds/mellodramatica
Summary: This was a solo that I wrote, and I decided to post it on here as well.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was a solo that I wrote, and I decided to post it on here as well.

Lunchtime was over, and the sun stood high in the sky as Achilles, son of Pelides, made his way out of the dining hall and up to the weaponry shed. Dust, drought, the air rippling above the ground, creating wondrous illusions. The door to the shed opened with a slight creak, and the young man stepped in.  
Helmets, spears, swords, shields and more, all stacked and hun and ordered neatly. But Achilles took only two things; a sword and a spear.  
Then, he made his way to a dusty little courtyard where nobody really came, bare feet dashing across the sand. It was hot, but if you didn’t think about it, it became less noticeable. And Achilles had his mind on other things.  
He reached the place and inhaled deeply, momentarily closing his eyes. He pictured, in his mind’s eye, the enemy; five, ten, fifteen, twenty of them, coming his way, the remorseless bronze raised high in their hands. Smiling, he let out a single “Heh”, and raised his own. And then he danced.  
What could one compare it to, this fatal dance of Achilles? To a lion, perhaps, with its great golden mane, able to rip to shreds anyone that stood in his way? Does that do justice?  
Let us take, as an example, the great hero Ajax. Great, strong and completely lethal. He fights like an enormous hammer, taking everyone and everything down with immense force.  
Achilles, in comparison, is like the tip of a needle. Though he is strong, he relies more on speed and preciseness. His reflexes are expeditious and his aim never fails, as if his eye registers every move in slow motion; it may seem, as if he is prepared before the enemy has even thought of his next move. And it is so in his mind, as he fights an imaginary fight, muscles and tendons moving in harmony. He tires not. If he must, he could keep doing it forever, until his skin shrivels and his senses dullen. However, this time, something is different.  
It makes his movements stutter in sync with his heart. It comes in a fixed sequence; a feeling, a name, a face. It makes him feel as if he needs to breathe deeper. Patroclus.  
His name rolls off the mind’s tongue like sweet wine, he wants to say it, but is scared to be heard. He would say it, if he could, a thousand times, and a thousand times more. He thinks of skin in the warm light of a fire, soft and matte and asking to be touched, and he would say it, if he could. He thinks of hair, which, though usually brown, looks dark blue in the light of the moon, riddled through by his own pale fingers, and then again, he would say it. He thinks of lips, soft and pink and moist as his own, and if he wouldn’t say it this time, the sole reason would be the occupation of his lips with something else. He thinks of situations in which he would say it, breathe it, moan it, Pa-tro-clus. By now, Achilles has stopped the dance, sitting down on one knee as he holds his spear, head down as he breathes. By the Gods, he is filled with a need; he finds he cannot resume the fight. It’s hot, and so is he; he wants to take a bath. Shortly after, this is exactly what he is doing, in a little creek behind the palace, hidden by the hill in between. He sits in the middle, nude, feeling the water flow by. With his fingers, he writes in the water, a letter; P. It disappears before his finger even finishes the first line. A. T. R. O. C. L. U. S. The water is quick, its fluidity eager to get rid of the letters before they’re even visible. Achilles’ mind is like a rock. The letters carved into it wouldn’t disappear, not even in a hundred, a thousand, a million years, when he is long dead. If the future humans were to find him and open his skull, they would see the letters engraved inside it.  
Achilles is sure of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Please tell me what you thought or leave kudo's - I appreciate it lots!


End file.
